shift it--will dash him helplessly
down to certain death. Stop the clang of the bells beneath him, it may
startle him! The spectators far below on the earth involuntarily clasp
their hands breathlessly; the jackdaws, who have been driven from
their last place of refuge by the ascending figure, caw as they
flutter wildly round his head; only the clouds in the sky pursue their
way above him, untouched. Only the clouds? No. The daring man on the
ladder goes on as calmly as they. He is no vain dare-devil wantonly
bent on making himself talked of; he goes his dangerous way in the
course of his calling. He knows that the ladder is firm; he himself
has built the scaffold, he knows that it is firm; he knows that his
heart is strong and his tread sure. He does not look down where the
earth holds out her green arms luringly, he does not look up where
from the procession of clouds in the sky the fatal giddiness may drop
down on his steady eye. The centre of the rungs is the pathway of his
glance, and he stands on top. No heaven exists for him, no earth,
nothing but the broach-post and the ladder which he ties together with
his rope. The knot is made; the spectators breathe with relief and
give utterance in all the streets to their admiration for the daring
man and his doings high up between heaven and earth. For a week the
children of the town play at being slaters.

But now the daring man begins his work indeed. He fetches up another
rope and lays it as a rotary ring round the post below the pommel of
the steeple. To this he fastens his tackle with three blocks, to the
tackle the rings of his hanging seat. A board to sit on with two
places cut out to allow his legs to hang down, and with a low, curved
back, on either side boxes for slates, nails and tools; in front,
between the places for his legs, a little anvil on which he hammers
the slate to the shape he wants it with his slater's hammer; this
apparatus, held by four strong cables which unite above to form two
rings for the hooks of the tackle, is the hanging-seat as he calls it,
the light craft in which he sails round the roof of the steeple high
in the air. By means of the tackle he easily pulls himself up or lets
himself down as high or as low as he likes; the ring above turns round
the steeple with the tackle and hanging-seat in whichever direction he
desires. A gentle kick against the roof sets the whole in motion, for
him to stop where he pleases. Soon no one stands be